


Cupped

by Davechicken



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Aftercare, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8434726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: After, he doesn't talk.





	

Phasma is always pleasantly surprised by just how much punishment her Knight can take. The cups are put to one side, but the large, wine-red bruises over his broad back will remain for days. The plug nestled deep inside him still sings away, making him squirm and sigh in bliss, even though he’s long since spent. She won’t turn it off, but the pulses are softer, now. It’s good to pull him for longer than his body thinks he can take, to make him ride the wave to the end.

She puts her thighs to his, swaying like she’s the one fucking his hole, and runs her hands into his tangle of hair. His scalp is wet, but the ends are just silky in her hands. She combs through it, letting the strands fall from her palms. She envies it occasionally, but it’s not efficient for her to do the same.

Kylo needs a lot of pain. Phasma doesn’t fully understand, because she likes a little, but nothing like this. He’s much more careful with her, though that’s the wrong word. He’s firm, but he tempers pleasure and pain together. For him, just the sting and burn is enough, and he likes things to be as bright as possible.

Well. Until after. After, he turns into this slumped, sighing blanket. He lets his head be pulled back, offering his throat, and tries to dance on her lap even though the position doesn’t give him much room to do it. She’s satisfied, though, and it’s more the pantomime of it, the offer and the willingness to do more.

She keeps his hair with one hand, the other smoothing over his side, over the marks. Phasma knows he loves the tingle under her touches, and then she lays his head down to kiss just at the base of his neck. He always purrs at that, and her body reacts even though she’s too wiped to do anything but ride the wave of his spine, the backwash of their bliss.

Phasma lies flat over him, her breasts squashed against him. Her hands cover his (he can’t grip yet), and he breathes deeply below her, lifting them both.

There’s no words in his throat, just a rumble of contentment. He’ll drift off, and she knows he’ll sleep right through.


End file.
